I write this sitting in the kitchen sink.

Time takes the ugliness and horror out of death and turns it into beauty.

Though he had very little Latin beyond "Cave canem," he had, as a young dog, devoured Shakespeare (in a tasty leather binding).

My hand is very tired but I want to go on writing. I keep resting and thinking. All day I have been two people - the me imprisoned in yesterday and the me out here on the mound; and now there is a third me trying to get in - the me in what is going to happen next.

Even a broken heart doesn't warrant a waste of good paper.

I wonder if there isn't a catch about having plenty of money? Does it eventually take the pleasure out of things?

I have really sinned. I am going to pause now, and sit here on the mound repenting in deepest shame.